


Nemeses

by anomist



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Past Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomist/pseuds/anomist
Summary: Clarke Griffin is not one for false claims, melodrama, or pointless acts of daring. At least, sober Clarke isn't.But drunk Clarke? She's game. And when Bellamy Blake's the one calling the shots, she'll do what it takes to win.Or, the one where Clarke and Bellamy hate each other so hard they barely realize when they stop, and everyone else is *here* for that ride. That ride being skydiving.





	1. Bellamy Blake Steals From Old People

**Author's Note:**

> So... I don't really know what's going on here, guys. I just sat down and this happened. I had a blast writing this far, so hopefully you like it and tell me I should continue. Because I probably will anyway, but it would make my heart all warm and cozy if you asked for more!

Clarke Griffin didn’t use the word “nemesis” lightly. It came with a lot of nerd weight, for one, and she didn’t want her life distilled into a caricature. This was no comic book, no Marvelian summer blockbuster they could all enjoy with popcorn from a distance before dismantling its tropes and cliches. This was the _real world_ , and thus required a certain amount of gravity.

With this in mind, Clarke swallowed a burp and slammed her palm down on the bartop.

“Bellamy Blake steals from old people.”

Across the bar, Raven Reyes snuck a sip of bourbon before taking that one on.

“Are we talking social security scams or literally snatching old lady purses?”

Clarke considered the question, tipping back her pint glass for the last ounce of whatever over-hopped travesty their college pub was calling beer. It was her fourth, which was usually not enough to put her quite this far down the wonderful slip-n-slide of inebriation, but this was the day after finals ended and so Clarke had begun the night with shots of Jasper and Monty’s latest concoction.

That—the booze, and the possible hallucinogens within the booze—was the only reason she let her glass fall back down to the bartop with a sigh and grumbled, “Social security scams. He’s too wily for petty theft.” _And he’s ahead of me in Stats. The bastard._

“Honestly a lot more credit than I expected from you, Griffin.” Octavia Blake slid into the stool beside Clarke, resting her elbows on the bar and grinning up at Raven. “Hit me, gorgeous.”

“You sure you’re old enough to drink?” Raven asked, leaning on the bar with a slow smirk that made Clarke feel about as visible as her empty beer.

“Nah.” Octavia put a hand to her mouth in mock secrecy. “But it’s cool. I’m sleeping with the bartender.”

“Oh my god. You people disgust me.” 

“Internalized biphobia’s not healthy, Clarke,” Octavia said with a sad shake of her head.  

“Neither is making me sit through your pillow talk.” 

“Hey,” Raven put in, turning to get her girlfriend’s drink. “You make us sit through your would-be pillow talk with O’s broth—”

Horrified by the words about to rampage out of her best friend’s mouth, Clarke cut her off with another smack on the bar. “How dare you malign this sacred night with such—such—malignments?”

“Thank god you’re not an English major.” Octavia knocked Clarke on the shoulder with a friendly punch that nearly sent her swaying right off the stool. The brunette caught her by the arm and pulled her upright. “Damn, girl, maybe your next drink is water.”

“Maybe your mom’s next drink is water.” Not her finest comeback, no, but Clarke was prepared to commit to the staredown. Octavia just rolled her eyes.

“Trust the one time you get wasted to be the night I show up late.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Raven’s. And probably Jasper’s.”

“You’re not wrong, Blake. You’re not wrong.” In her head, Clarke thought she sounded rather put together. Sage, even. But when a low chuckle sounded behind her, far too close for comfort, all that false composure drained out of her like an IV gone low.

_No. Not now._

“See how easy that was?” he taunted. “Now all you have to do is say it to the right sibling.”

Octavia’s eyes were fixed over Clarke’s left shoulder, her expression frozen somewhere between horror and delight. It was not a friendly look. It was a look that said, _I will not stop any of this from happening to you._

Slowly, carefully, keeping one hand on the edge of the bar for balance (and to look cool and collected), Clarke swiveled to face the man she’d recently accused of robbing the elderly. He hadn’t actually done any such thing, as far as she knew, but the smirk Bellamy Blake wore now was definitely the same one a supervillain would practice in the mirror.

“Do you practice that in the mirror?”

“What, this?” He waved a hand at his face, which was tan and freckled and framed by messy dark curls that made him look like a goddamn _Assassin’s Creed_ character. Despicable. “Just comes natural. We all have our crosses to bear. Yours are a little more heinous than most, sure, but—”

“I really wish I had time to hear whatever it is you’re about to say, but I’m afraid my schedule is completely booked so you’ll have to please fuck off.” Amazed she’d managed to get through that whole sentence without missing a word or losing her train of thought or belching at him, Clarke swung back to face Raven’s raised brows and cleared her throat. “Bar wench? A dram?”

“I’m not so sure you need a dram,” Raven said, crossing lean arms over her chest.

“Listen to her!” Octavia put in. She clapped an arm around Clarke’s shoulder and squeezed. “She’s so fucking articulate! This girl clearly isn’t drunk enough and you need to fix it, bar wench.”

“Literally moments ago you said she needed water.”

“Literally moments ago the situation changed,” Octavia retorted through gritted teeth that weren’t remotely subtle.

Clarke pulled away from her grip and grumbled, “Literally moments ago _I_ ordered another drink, but who’s counting?” 

“Counting what?” Bellamy asked. The bar was loud, top 40 beats slamming over a sea of drunk college students trying their damndest to stave off the strain and desperation of knowing grades would soon come knocking, but she could hear every rumble of every syllable.

Because he had not, in fact, fucked off. Because he was right beside her, one elbow propped against the bar, his forearm (bare beneath a rolled-up Henley sleeve, because the universe hated Clarke Griffin) _just_ far enough from her own that she could feel the faintest tingle of warmth from his skin.

“None of your business.”

“So hostile. What if I was here on a mission of peace?”

She shot him a glance, the alcohol turning her perceptions strange and unpredictable. Where usually she’d see his brown eyes as cold and dead as a shark’s, now they caught the reddish light of the bar lamps and glowed with flecks of amber and gold. It was disconcerting, and for a second Clarke couldn’t remember what he’d asked her. One dark brow cranked up. He was smiling a little, just one tip of his mouth, and Clarke felt her cheeks go hot.

“Define ‘peace’ for me, Blake. Is it stealing my thesis topic and turning the whole class against me, or would you say it’s more destroying my relationship?”

Well. Sometimes zero to sixty was a good plan, and sometimes it just… happened to you. Clarke swallowed a sudden lump of something that felt horribly like shame. Why should _she_ be ashamed? Every word she’d said was true, and they both knew it, so why should she feel bad for ruining his little joke? 

Bellamy, for his part, didn’t react for a beat. That little smile didn’t fade, but it did shift. Something sharpened in his eyes that made Clarke’s breath catch, and not in a pleasant way. (Not that her breath ever caught in the good way because of Octavia’s jackass older brother. To be clear.)

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, and paused just long enough to confuse her. “Maybe we do need another drink.” Bellamy tilted his head towards Raven and held up two fingers.

Clarke shook her head. “I don’t want to drink with you.”

“Why not? Scared?”

“Of what? The embarrassment you’ll feel when you can’t keep up?”

“I think that horse has left the stable, Princess. Unless you’re suggesting shots.” 

“Your metaphors are dumb. I’m not taking shots with you.”

“I’d take a shot with you,” Octavia offered, craning around Clarke’s shoulder.

“I don’t know if I can watch my baby sister—” He stopped, hands up in submission before whatever ferocious look had come over Octavia’s face. Clarke couldn’t stop herself from cataloguing how his own features changed when he laughed. How his real smile, the one she never got, made him look like someone you could trust. Someone you could… 

“Fine,” she snapped, turning to the bar. “Raven, change of plans.”


	2. Clarke Griffin Deserves This Hangover

 

Someone was murdering kittens in her bedroom. That was the only explanation for the hell-screech coming from the corner.

“Clarke! Turn off your goddamn alarm before I come in there and smash you with it!”

Or maybe not.

Clarke made it onto her side, one arm flopping out to hit the snooze button on her bedside alarm. She kept her hand on the little clock after the sound cut off, trying to work up the strength to fling it across the room. Although if it hit the wall it would make a loud noise, and that was unacceptable. But if she moved her hand the alarm would sound again in ten minutes, and that was even worse.

Eventually she found the OFF button. Raven managed one more death threat in the meantime, but Clarke reassured herself that if her roommate actually had the presence of mind to carry out corporeal vengeance she’d already be in here with a steak knife.

An hour later, her eyes still full of grit and her head throbbing with the gentle promise of worse things to come, Clarke woke up for real. She had one blessed breath of clean, carefree air before things started coming back.

_“You’ll never do it.”_

_“Won’t I? Tell me, Princess, when have you seen me back down?”_

_She scoffs, tossing her head for emphasis. Only she’s leaning against the club wall now so her skull hits the brick with a dull thud. Bellamy laughs out loud, all dimples and charm and other spoils of whatever demonic bargain he's made._

_“Yeah, yuk it up.” Clarke resists the urge to touch the back of her head; she already knows she’ll have a bruise so the only thing checking will do is make her look even more lame. “We’ll see who’s laughing when we jump out the airplane.”_

“Oh, god.” Clarke’s own voice startled her into silence. Who’d reached into her throat and replaced her vocal chords with a reanimated mummy’s?

She sat up. Slowly. Even so, changing vertical angles sent an arrow of pain through her temples that made Clarke groan aloud. Her mouth tasted like couch lint. Her eyeballs were dry as a desert. She had to pee so badly she might not be safe to stand up.

And she was pretty sure she’d agreed to go skydiving with Bellamy Blake.

It took a shower, her birthday body wash, and a cup of strong coffee paired with Raven’s special mimosa recipe (grapefruit, ginger, hot pepper, and champagne with a dash of vodka) to make Clarke feel human enough for a conversation. But even then she didn’t really feel ready for the look of blatant superiority on her best friend’s face.

“Please,” she begged, double-fisting caffeine and hair of the dog between words. “Please don’t tell me.”

“But if I don’t tell you, how will you win?”

To her credit, Raven didn’t look that much more alive than Clarke. Her dark hair was a wavy explosion instead of raked back in its customary ponytail, and she had yet to put on pants. But as she sipped her homemade hangover remedy and waggled her brows, her own lack of composure didn’t make Clarke feel any better.

The silence stretched between them for one beat of Clarke’s headache. Two.

“Win what.”

“The bet you made with that boy you want to bone.” Raven yawned as if she hadn’t just declared open warfare. And then Clarke really did remember.

_They’re near the bathrooms, out of view of the bar but far enough from the dance floor that Clarke isn’t worried about Octavia dragging her into the fray. She came here for the quiet, or at least the slightly less eardrum-bashing noise; Bellamy appearing out of nowhere had seemed perfectly natural. She’s drunk, but it also happens all the time. He’s like a cat crossed with a spider, always ready to startle her into doing something stupid like shriek or punch him._

_Now, though, he’s definitely the cat with the cream. Or, more accurately, with the mouse._

_“So you’re seriously saying you will go skydiving this Saturday. You, Clarke Griffin, will go up in a plane and jump out the door.”_

_Clarke does not appreciate being the mouse._

_“Every conversation with you makes me want to jump out of an airplane, Blake, so I feel like I’m pretty well prepared.”_

_She has to shout to be heard. He moves in closer, hitches his shoulder against the brick beside her and tilts his head her way; if he weren’t so much taller it would bring their faces unacceptably close._

_“That’s hurtful. Maybe you should buy me another drink to apologize.”_

_“Don’t forget your half of the deal,” Clarke says, eyes scanning the gyrating crowd so she doesn’t have to look up into his. “I jump, you give me back my thesis.”_

_“You don’t think that’s a hard bargain?” There’s a funny note in Bellamy's voice that even Drunk Clarke can pick up on; it’s hard to nail down but she places it somewhere between smug and spiteful._ _She scoffs._

_"Thought you were sure I wouldn’t do it.”_

_“Oh, I am.” Now he's just smug._

_Clarke rolls so her left shoulder matches his right, leaned up against the wall as if they’re just two people having a normal conversation about normal things. She prods him in the chest with her index finger, annoyed when he doesn’t even have the grace to sway._

_“You’ve got six whole months to find yourself a new topic. Why don’t you just pay your little fan club to come up with ideas so you can take the credit?”_

_She’s not sure what it is about Bellamy that brings this out in her, this sharpness, this need to cut through his smirking mask of confidence and control until she finds something real. Even if that something is pain._

_But he doesn’t look offended._

_He looks pissed._

_And Pissed Bellamy is, to Clarke’s unspeakable horror, almost as magnetic as Happy Bellamy._

_The space between them, already small, is suddenly negligible. Music pounds around them, screaming girls, laughter; the air is too hot and too close. She moves without thought, jolting away. It brings her back flat against the wall and now he’s crowding her in. He doesn’t touch her, doesn’t cage her there, but Bellamy doesn’t need to use his size or strength to freeze Clarke in her tracks. Not when she’s—vulnerable, some part of her brain insists, frantic and yammering beneath the rush of her own heartbeat and the impossible feeling of shockwaves running up and down her skin. It’s the booze. The noise of the club. The dehydration._

_It’s not the way she can feel his body inches from hers, an electric heat that’s so fucking cliche and yet there are no other words for how attuned her skin is to his._

_“I didn’t steal your thesis, Clarke.” He almost never says her name, her real name; it’s always Griffin or Princess or Your Majesty. The way his mouth forms the syllable, dark and almost raw, steals the breath from her lungs. And Clarke Griffin does the worst thing she could possibly imagine._

_Her lips part, just a little, and she sucks in a faint and almost imperceptible gasp._

_He shouldn’t have heard it. It should be too loud, too crazy._

_But Bellamy’s eyes narrow by a fraction, brows drawing down and then lifting in equally faint surprise._

_And then his gaze drops to her mouth._

“Raven,” Clarke said as calmly as she could manage. “I’m going to need you to scrub those words from your vocabulary, and then scrub my brain for all the memories of last night, and probably also invest in some bleach for me to drink after I finish this.”

She tipped her champagne flute back, choking down more mimosa. Raven leaned back in her chair and spread her arms wide.

“Aw, come on, it’s not that bad! Who _hasn’t_ agreed to go skydiving with their nemesis in a lunatic attempt to deny their attraction to him and maybe also blackmail him into academic disaster?”

“Not helping.”

“In my defense, I haven’t seen you this obsessively stupid about another person since—”

“Do _not_ compare Bellamy to Lexa.”

“I’m just saying! If you stop and think about it, they have a lot in common. Both tall, dark, and gorgeous; both charismatic and a little scary; both driven…”

“I’m going to drive you off a cliff in about five seconds.”

“That would require you finding your keys. And your car.” A weighted pause. “O brought it home, don’t worry. That was after Bell brought _you_ home, by the way; are we going to talk about that?”

“No.” Clarke set down her glass and let her forehead thunk onto the table. “Ow.”

Raven reached across the table to pat her on the back. “Fine. If you insist on denial, look at it this way. Skydiving is badass by definition. Now you have the chance to be awesome and kill your worst enemy while you’re at it!”

Eyes closed, forehead still pressed against the wood, Clarke considered this point. It helped a little.

But, considering her final memories of the night before involved literally fleeing the club and trying to call a Lyft with a dead phone, and then allowing Bellamy Blake to fold her into a car and half-carry her to her front door—where he’d left her struggling with the lock, which on the one hand, thank _god,_ and on the other hand, fuck him _—_ Clarke wasn’t quite ready to call it a win.

Because this was Friday morning. Meaning tomorrow was Saturday.

And if there was one thing Clarke could say for certain she and Bellamy had in common, it was this:

Neither of them were good at backing down. 


	3. Nobody Needs Dignity, Anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to y'all who've left comments and kudos, it means the world. I don't know exactly where this is going but I hope you guys have as much fun reading as I am writing!

Clarke managed to spend the whole of Friday inside the two bedroom apartment she and Raven could barely afford.

Once, at around 4:30, she considered putting on a bra so she could run down to the corner store and pick up a package of Oreos. Instead she threw the last egg in with a haphazard pile of sugar and butter and not quite enough flour and ate most of it raw. As an ex-pre-med student, Clarke felt she still possessed the necessary authority to deem that choice safe.

When Raven and Octavia returned from their Actual Date Night (as was penciled on the fridge calendar) and Clarke was still on the couch, a plate of droopy cookies in her lap and a Lifetime Original teaching her about identity theft on the television, she couldn’t really begrudge an intervention.

“Okay, Danger Mouse,” Raven started. “Maybe it’s time to think about your exit strategy.”

Octavia dropped down beside Clarke and stole a cookie that fell apart in her hand. She stuffed the pieces into her mouth and spoke around them. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Bell’s tenacious, he’ll never let you live it down if you flake.”

“That won't matter if we never see each other again,” Clarke mumbled. “I could live in here forever. Look, I made sustenance.”

Raven neatly plucked the plate from her lap and held it out of reach when Clarke swiped for it, then limped back towards the kitchen. “Yeah, no, I’m ordering you Thai food. Then we’re going to talk about your actual plan.”

“I don’t know why you think I’ve got a plan.” Clarke raked her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face, and turned off the movie. “I made my bed. I know I have to lie in it.”

Octavia smirked. “Your choice of metaphors doesn’t really help your case.”

“What _case_?”

“The case where you would rather fling yourself out of a fucking airplane than admit you like my brother.”

“I do not like your brother. I think it’s pretty well documented that I strongly dislike him, in fact. And he hates me anyway, so.” Clarke stopped abruptly after that misstep, recognizing the glint of triumph in Octavia’s dark eyes.

“So… if he _didn’t_ hate you…?”

“Moot point. And also I resent the implications.” Clarke shifted so Raven could drop down on the far end of the couch, lifting her bad leg up and plopping it onto Octavia’s lap. This brought her foot, still in her customary combat boot, right onto Clarke’s thigh. “Oh. Welcome. Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, boo. So tell us. For real.” Raven snuggled into the couch arm, one arm stretching out along the back to tangle idly in Octavia’s hair. “Are you seriously doing this tomorrow? Wouldn’t it be easier to just… talk it out?”

“He stole my thesis! I had an idea, I told you about it, he overheard, and the _very next day_ —”

“You all had to get up in front of your capstone class and share topics and he stole yours. We know, _Jesus._ It was in August!”

“Spoken like a real sophomore.” Clarke heard the edge in her voice too late, tension not meant for Octavia, but the younger girl brushed off the dig with a roll of her eyes.

“All I’m saying is, you have this huge stick up your butt about this big horrible thing Bell did to you half a year ago, and maybe—just maybe—there’s another side to that story. Maybe one he’d like to share if you ever gave him even one eighth of a chance.”

“Oh, is that so? Is that why he got me wasted and dared me to splatter myself all over the state?”

Raven ducked her head, hiding a smile that made Clarke want to storm off. If she weren’t so cozy. And Raven’s foot weren’t on her lap. “Have you ever noticed,” her roommate began with maddeningly obvious care, “that you make it really difficult to talk to you when you think you’re in the right?”

Now Clarke didn’t just want to slam into her bedroom. She wanted to argue the point, to spit back something justified and logical that would make Raven feel terrible for even suggesting such a—

Okay.

Yeah.

She saw it now.

“Stop answering questions with questions,” Clarke muttered, a low rumble of guilt turning in her stomach. Or maybe that was hunger. Or the raw cookie dough. “I’m doing this bet. And as for Bellamy...”

She stopped. Words _were_ there, crowding up her throat and freezing on her tongue. But even Clarke wasn’t sure what they might be. Only that all of a sudden, she was quite terrified of letting them out.

And then, with the kind of timing that guaranteed a truly killer tip, the doorbell rang for Thai.

 

***

 

_Bzzzt-deet!_

A name Clarke had only seen on her phone once—confirming that Clarke would indeed pick Octavia up from the airport—flashed on her screen. Stupid nerves sent her pulse into higher gear, and Clarke almost ignored the text out of spite.

Then she rolled onto her stomach in bed and pressed her thumbprint into the scanner.

 **The Worst Blake:** Pick you up at 8

Clarke scoffed softly. Not even the decency to add a question mark! Also, eight? Eight in the morning? Had they discussed this at the club? She honestly couldn’t remember any details about time or location or—here’s a thought—price.

But admitting that would be admitting weakness. Defeat. And frankly, this whole thing was so ridiculous that Clarke really had no choice but to lean in. If she wasn’t going to call it off right the fuck now, then she had to proceed with unflinching confidence.

 **Clarke Griffin:** Americano. Black.

A pause. Three dots appeared. Vanished. Clarke grinned to her pillow: score one for the home team.

 **The Worst Blake:** Anything for you princess

 **Clarke Griffin:** Are you allergic to punctuation?

This time her phone buzzed with a new message before she’d even closed the chat screen.

 **The Worst Blake:** You’ve found it. My only weakness

 **Clarke Griffin:** Who hurt you, Blake? Who made you like this?

 **The Worst Blake:** You’ll have to get me horizontal on a couch for that kind of insight

 **Clarke Griffin:** Gross.

 **The Worst Blake:** Guess that’s why I’ll see you bright and early

 **The Worst Blake:**!

Clarke snorted and set her phone on her bedside table. But by the time she’d pulled the sheets up over her pajamas, any humor had drained right into the mattress. 

Because Clarke’s heart was still racing along several miles faster than the speed limit, and her face felt weird and tight. Her hands a little shaky.

 _That wasn’t flirting,_ she told herself, staring up at the blackened ceiling. _It was the cookie dough. I’m probably going to get sick tonight and wind up in the ER and not be able to skydive because I’m busy dying of food poisoning. They’ll print that in my obituary, self-inflicted cookie dough food poisoning, and no one will ever respect my memory._

And considering she had barely had time to freak out about the actual skydiving, what with all her freaking out about Octavia's stupid brother, death by dough didn't really sound that bad. Hell, they might not even make the connection in her autopsy. Maybe they'd chalk it up to stress, or bad prawn curry! 

Sleep was a long time coming, but with thoughts of her imminent death by food poisoning—much more comforting than either death by skydive  _or_ the idea that she'd actually engaged in a flirtatious exchange with Bellamy Blake—Clarke did eventually drift off.

***

_They’re back at the club. Music all around yet nowhere, pounding bass and heavy silence all at once. Her back against the bricks, rough against the bare strip of skin between her shirt and her jeans. Hands balled into fists at her sides._

_His forearms are braced against the wall beside her head, his chest inches from hers, the heat of him trapping her just as firmly as his body. They aren’t touching but she can feel him everywhere, from her lips to her core, the tingling pressure of_ almost.

_“Clarke,” he says, her name a savage thing on his tongue. His eyes are so dark and so hungry, miles and miles of frustration and fury all welling up into this moment of too much, too much, too—_

_“Bellamy,” she breathes, and then his mouth is on hers._

_Heat explodes inside her belly, lower, a gasping torturous rush that rocks her to the bone. She’s clutching at his shirt, his neck, his body all that keeps her standing as he catches her lower lip between his teeth and—_

***

Clarke woke with a sound between a gasp and a strangled scream. She’d kicked her sheets down around her ankles, her whole body flush with the dream still pressed against her skin. Her heart thudded halfway out her ribs. She could still feel his teeth on her, the aching pulse of need between her thighs.

Flopped onto her back, Clarke slapped a hand over her eyes and said the only thing she could.

“Well, fuck.”


	4. Anxiety, Round One: Fight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know what's going on with this fic, team. Hope you like it anyway.

By the time 7:55 ticked by on the cheap Walmart clock above the sink, Clarke had been awake for over an hour. She sat at their little round kitchen table with a mug of tea and a bowl of yogurt, half-eaten, using her spoon to make little whorls and peaks of Chobani.

The minute hand ticked to 7:56. Clarke licked yogurt from the tip of her spoon.

If Raven were here, she would make some comment about licking and boys and cream. It would make Clarke blush, and then possibly throw up. Just thinking about it made her stomach lurch, either from the nerves or the imagery; all in all Clarke considered herself lucky Raven never woke up before 10am on weekends. Honestly, thank _god_ she was here alone, in the nice, calm, quiet of her kitchen, waiting for Bellamy Blake to come pick her up to go skydiving after having one of the hottest wet dreams of her life.

“Agh.” Clarke dropped the spoon into her bowl and lightly smacked herself in the cheek. “Griffin, you are the _worst_.”

Her insides felt like they were trying to run laps, or maybe play capture the flag. Every time she shifted in her seat something dislodged inside her belly, a whole new flavor of anxiety, and she _did not approve_. Clarke Griffin didn’t do this kind of pansy shit. Clarke Griffin was driven, and she was confident, and she was in full command of her own sexuality, and—

A knock at the door, two lazy raps.

And she was well and truly boned.

Clarke pushed up from the table in one smooth movement, burying her nerves the way she’d always done: by sweeping them under a granite-thick layer of cool, appraising self-assurance that was about as real as her eyebrow contour. She swept her hands down the long-sleeved cotton shirt she’d selected after an embarrassing amount of deliberation, then went to get the door.

“Here,” Bellamy said without preamble. She took the coffee he handed her with both hands and slurped a quick sip to stop the drink from spilling over onto her boots. The coffee was blazing hot, and Clarke blinked back tears while managing not to betray her scorched tongue.

“Thanks.” She even pinned up a smile. “Shall we?”

“Not going to invite me in?”

“You’re not a vampire. You don’t need my permission.” She’d meant it as a casual barb, just their usual semi-hostile banter, but the dream flashed into Clarke’s head with a vividness almost as searing as the coffee. Refusing to falter even as she felt her cheeks burn, she went on. “But unless you want to risk the Beast, I’d keep our time here limited. Raven got back late. She won’t tolerate noise until three at the earliest.”

Bellamy snorted softly, the barest admission of humor, and stepped back to let her through. His dark canvas jacket and black jeans made him look like some kind of militant and Clarke desperately wanted the right quip to point it out, but first she had to lock the door and that meant standing inches away from him with lava coffee in one hand and her suddenly-too-many keys in the other.

“You have to jimmy it,” she muttered as he watched her struggle to get the lock to turn. Bellamy sipped his own coffee without a word, but one dark brow quirked up and that was enough to bulldoze any confusing feelings right out of Clarke’s system in favor of a much more familiar desire to elbow him in the gut.

“And here I thought you were just drunk the other night.” His voice was warm, amused, rich whiskey burning where it hit her but Clarke wouldn’t flinch. “Maybe you should get your locks changed out.”

She managed a sort of hum-grunt in response, finally getting the lock to click and pocketing her keys.

“Okay,” Clarke said, tugging her coat into place like some kind of fucking senator. “Onward.” She pretended to sip from her coffee again, lower lip stinging where the espresso made contact, and strode off down the hall.

Before she sat down in the passenger seat of his Prius (because of course Bellamy drove a Prius), Clarke hadn’t really considered how small those cars really were. About a foot of space separated his right arm from her left, which was honestly quite a reasonable amount. But then he closed his door and trapped them in a tiny capsule that smelled of fresh coffee and something a little woodsier that Clarke associated with both the Blake siblings and also a casual Pacific Northwest mountain peak at dawn.

Or something like that.

It was mostly the dream’s fault, anyway, but god _damn_ . Raven’s ribbing and Octavia’s less-than-subtle insinuations were finally getting to her. She was just so painfully, uncontrollably _aware_ of him now.

_Super inconvenient_ , Clarke thought, noting the easy way he manned the wheel with one long-fingered hand. She incinerated that image with another sip of Americano.

“So,” Bellamy said, eyes on the road. “How was your naked dance party?”

It was to her own credit that Clarke didn’t spew molten coffee all over his lemon-pledge-scented dashboard.

“Excuse me?”

“You tell me, princess; you were pretty stoked about it the other night.”

Bellamy’s profile stayed as impassive as if he’d commented on the weather these days—except for one tiny quirk of his mouth. The side she could see. Clarke registered that upward drag of lip, quick as anything, and checked the speedometer. _70 miles per hour._ Too fast to kill him and survive the crash.

Clarke adjusted her grip on the coffee and summoned every remaining ounce of the venomous calm she usually saved for Thanksgiving dinner.

“You’re driving right now, so I’m going to pretend you’re not an actual child and let that go.”

“Oh, yeah? Gosh, I wonder what would happen if I  _weren't_ driving.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Now who’s an actual child?”

“Wow,” Clarke sniped, checking her phone. “You made it a whole seven minutes before I called this stupid thing off.”

“Whoa, hey, slow down. You backing out, Griffin?” His words were teasing but there was a sudden edge between them, something subtle and distinct that scraped against her skin like a nail. “Wouldn’t that be _losing_?”

She wanted to make a quick retort, something biting yet emotionally righteous that would make him feel bad without making her feel like an asshole. Nothing came to mind. Clarke sucked in a breath, held it, mind racing like her heartbeat.

Wait.

Why the hell was her pulse rabbiting like this? She was sitting in a damn car having a toothless argument about a drunken bet that meant absolutely nothing. This whole conversation meant absolutely nothing!

And now she’d been silent too long.

_Fuck_. Bellamy was sneaking glances at her, the irritated line of his jaw loosening into something curious. Confused.

Concerned?

“Clarke,” he said. He sounded oddly far away, as if he were speaking through a layer of velvet. “Are you okay?”

The car was too small. There wasn’t enough space for all her limbs, for all the bones inside her skin; she couldn’t get enough air between his body and hers and suddenly Clarke realized she wasn’t breathing. Or she was breathing too fast?

Around her the hazy morning sunshine swirled into a pulsing blur of white light and muted leather. Everything tasted like smoke and citrus, her lungs compressed beneath the weight of all that oxygen she couldn’t seem to breathe—

Hands on her face. Fingers raking back her hair. Something warm and strong around her shoulders, pulling her left against a thudding steady rhythm as the world dissolved into a single cardboard color and the catch-release of inhale, exhale, inhale again.

Slowly, Clarke’s vision patched together into reality. She was staring down at a brown paper grocery bag, crinkled around her face and held in place by one large hand which was certainly not her own because hers were clenched around her thighs tight enough to hurt. She released her grip, stretched out her aching fingers.

And then Clarke became quite suddenly aware of her position.

Bellamy had pulled her close against his chest, one arm supporting her shoulders while he held the bag. His nose brushed her hair, the rapid tattoo of his pulse unmistakably the rhythm that had brought her breathing under control.

Clarke sat up fast, sliding out from underneath his arm to crowd herself against the window. Bellamy let her go without a struggle, bringing the paper bag to his lap and resting his right arm against the top of his seat. His eyes, when she dared snatch a glimpse, were horribly and unacceptably kind.

So she wouldn’t have to see his face, she looked down at the seatwell. Her coffee lay by her shoes, seeping into the floorboard.

“Sorry about that,” Clarke said, jerking her chin at the spill.

“No worries.” Bellamy ran his free hand through his curls. “I should use this as an excuse to clean the car, but honestly I like the smell…”

Clarke rubbed a hand over her face. Her entire stomach hurt with roiling anxiety; she hadn’t had one of those little _episodes_ since dropping out of med school. But she had to talk, had to salvage this while she could.

“We’ll see what you say when the espresso’s had time to really congeal into the rug. I don’t suppose you’d consider never talking about this again?” A quick beat. Clarke forced herself to meet his gaze. “That said… thank you.”

Bellamy studied her for half a second, then tossed the paper bag into the back and put the car in gear.

“You got it, princess.” He eased them back onto the highway. “Though if I’d known you were this scared of being alone with me, I would have suggested skydiving months ago.”

She snorted despite herself. “So you could have the honor of watching me freak out?”

“So I could see you look at me like that.”

“I didn’t realize you got off on girls having panic attacks.”

“More like girls who don’t hate my guts.”

“I don’t hate your guts, Bell.” It came out before she could stop it, her tongue riding high on the aftermath of a near nervous breakdown. Clarke snuck a sidelong glance, caught the way his lips curved up again—only this time, she didn’t think there was that much spite in the smirk.

Maybe no spite at all.

“Now please,” she said, aiming her gaze directly out the window with all the force of a thousand fiery, embarrassed suns. “For the love of god, shut up and drive.”


End file.
